


Mommy Dearest

by Qzil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dress Up, F/M, Makeup, Mommy Issues, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qzil/pseuds/Qzil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stops when he sees her, standing uncomfortably on the rug while she smooths down the skirt of his mother’s flower-pattered dress. It hugs her in the same way it did his mother, the skirt falling nearly to her ankles in small pleats and the high neckline hiding her breasts from view. With her face bare of make-up, Meg somehow looks older, more sure of herself. The smell of his mother’s perfume fills the bedroom, and when he looks past her he can see it open on her vanity and he almost feels a child again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mommy Dearest

He likes to watch Meg put on her make-up.

It’s his favorite part of sleeping over at her apartment, those fifteen minutes in the morning that he gets to watch her sit at her dressing table and carefully apply her heavy eyeliner and mascara and lipstick. On special days she uses blush and eye shadow, and he cherishes the extra few minutes it takes for her to perfect her look before she smacks her lips together, looks at him, and smiles, raising one eyebrow as if to ask him how she looks.

Before she puts her tools away, Meg always holds her eyeliner out to him, tilts her head, and asks if he would like to try.

He always declines, unable to tell if she’s being serious or teasing him, and tries not to peer into her closet. If Meg notices, she doesn’t say anything.

.

His mother died when he was seven.

There are few memories of his mother that are entirely clear. He remembers the way she’d laugh softly when he did something that she thought was cute, remembers the way her eyes wrinkled when she smiled, and remembers how safe and loved he felt when she would pick him up and hold him to her neck while he breathed in the smell of her perfume.

But most of all he remembers how she would sit him on her lap in the mornings while she did her make-up, carefully applying eyeliner and mascara and just a hint of lipstick, remembers how, when he was very young, she’d pick him up, set him on her vanity, and do it for him, too, laughing when he smiled and told her that now he was pretty, just like she was. He remembers the way she’d laughed and smiled when he’d pulled one of her dresses over his head and twirled, her bright blue eyes twinkling with happiness at the sight.  

He keeps one of her dresses buried in his dresser, folded neatly under his winter sweaters, and a bottle of her perfume nestled next to it. Sometimes, after he spends the night with Meg, he’ll fish it out and rub the gauzy green material between his thumb and forefinger, remembering those happy moments. The dress is faded now, more gray than green, the small red flowers fraying from the skirt, and her perfume smells less than it used to. But he cherishes those pieces of his mother, anyway, sprays the perfume over the material and brings it to his face and inhales.

.

“You sure you don’t wanna try?” Meg asks one Sunday. Castiel notices that her make-up is lighter than usual, and he chalks it up to the fact that he’s finally convinced her to come to church with him.

He shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

Meg shrugs, like usual, and pads over to her closet, unashamed of her bare body. His eyes widen when he sees her pull out a flower-patterned dress, nearly identical to his mother’s, and tries to look away when she pulls it over her head.

Meg notices and raises an eyebrow. “Do you wanna try it on?”

He hesitates. She doesn’t sound mean, like Hester did when she asked him that his sophomore year of high school after she’d caught him rooting around in her closet, looking for the clothes she inherited from their mother. Meg doesn’t sound teasing about it, either, or matter-of-fact. She sounds gentle, like his mother did the first time she asked if her son wanted to play dress-up like her daughter was always doing.

“No,” Castiel finally answers. “It wouldn’t fit.”

Meg shrugs. “It might. You never know. It’s a little big on me, anyways.”

Castiel just shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t want to ruin your one church-appropriate dress.”

Meg narrows her eyes at him but finally lets it go.

.

“I have a present for you,” she says two weeks later while he’s washing the dishes from dinner. “Come into my bedroom.”

He follows, like he always does, and tries not to flinch away when he sees another flower-patterned dress sitting on her bedspread, the skirt hanging off the side. Meg slides her arms around him from behind and presses a light kiss to the back of his neck. “Why don’t you try it on?”

“Where did you get this?” he asks, picking it up delicately. Meg shrugs.

“I took sewing all four years of high school. I had to guess some of your measurements, but I think I got it. Try it on for me?”

Her voice is so soft, as if she’s afraid that he won’t like her present, that he can’t refuse. He shrugs out of his jeans and t-shirt and pulls the dress over his head, shuffling awkwardly. It falls to his knees in soft, multicolored waves and the sleeves flutter over his shoulders, and for a moment he feels half a child again, safe in his mother’s arms, before doubt creeps in.

“I look ridiculous,” he says.

“You look _hot,”_ Meg corrects. He feels her hand slide up to squeeze his ass and turns around to see her eyes wide as she drinks him in. “God, Clarence. I could just eat you up.”

_You’re so adorable, Cas. Mommy could just eat you up!_

He flinches, knowing he shouldn’t be thinking of his mother when his girlfriend clearly has her mind set on sex. But like always, Meg seems to sense that something’s wrong, and she steps away, holding him at arm’s length.

“You sure you don’t want me to do your make-up? I bet you’d look cute.”

“No, thank you,” he says, like always.

“Alright. But I’m gonna take a shower. Join me or don’t.”

Usually he does join her, but this time he declines, staring at himself in the mirror before sitting down at her vanity and hesitantly reaching for her make-up. Having Meg do it would be a little too much like his mother, he decides, but he’s watched her enough times to know how to do it properly.

He makes a mess of himself while Meg’s in the shower. Her foundation is all wrong for him, making his skin look yellow under the bright lights of her bedroom, his eyeliner is crooked, his mascara is all wrong, and he’s missed parts of his lips entirely with the lipstick.

Meg laughs when she sees, but it’s a soft laugh, like the ones his mother used to give him when he did something she thought was cute. “Let me do it, babe,” Meg says, kneeling in front of him in only her robe, a make-up wipe in hand. He lets her clean his face and lets her lead him to the bathroom, sitting placidly on the edge of the tub as Meg runs a bath and opens a new package of razors.

“Can’t have hairy legs in this day and age,” she says dryly, lathering his skin with shaving cream before she sets to work, humming quietly. Castiel lets her, feeling more and more relaxed with every stroke the razor makes across his skin. When she’s finished, Meg towel-dries his legs and leads him back into the bedroom, murmuring in his ear about what a good boy he is, and that she knows just what to do to make him feel better.

“Not tonight,” he says when she sits him down at her vanity and reaches for her make-up. “Not tonight. I just—I can’t.”

“Alright, baby,” she whispers, and Castiel can’t help but notice that she doesn’t sound aroused or amused anymore, doesn’t sound like _Meg._ Her tone is softer, more relaxed, like a mother comforting her child. He wraps his arms around her and presses his face against her neck, almost able to smell his mother’s perfume.

“Tell me what you need, honey,” Meg soothes, stroking his back. “Tell me what you need.”

 _I need my mother,_ he thinks.

.

There hadn’t been an open casket at the funeral. The car crash that had killed her had been too violent, his father had said, and they were lucky they had enough of her to bury at all.

He wore his mother’s dress once after that, grabbing it before his father could throw away his wife’s things. But it had felt wrong without her there to laugh and hug him and tell him he was pretty in it.

.

But Meg seems to understand. At least, she doesn’t laugh when he tells her, just strokes his hair and lets him cuddle her. After, she undresses him and carefully hangs his dress in her closet before she puts him in his pajamas, tucking him in under her comforter before climbing into bed herself.

“Can I see it?” she asks before he falls asleep. “Her dress?”

Castiel hesitates, but nods and cuddles closer to her. “If you like. Can you do something for me?”

“Sure, Clarence.”

He tells her, and she does not judge, just pulls him closer to her and tells him that he’s okay, that she’ll take care of everything.

.

He brings his mother’s perfume, too, and stares at Meg for a moment before she sternly orders him out of the room. He obeys her, leaning against the door until she calls him back.

He stops when he sees her, standing uncomfortably on the rug while she smooths down the skirt of his mother’s flower-pattered dress. It hugs her in the same way it did his mother, the skirt falling nearly to her ankles in small pleats and the high neckline hiding her breasts from view. With her face bare of make-up, Meg somehow looks older, more sure of herself. The smell of his mother’s perfume fills the bedroom, and when he looks past her he can see it open on her vanity and he almost feels a child again.

“Do you want to play dress up?” Meg asks.

Castiel nods, shuffling forward shyly, until Meg takes his hand and leads him to her closet. “Okay, tell me which one you want.”

He opens the doors and sees clothes that he knows she doesn’t own. There are dresses that are too big for her, all in florals or stripes or smooth pastel colors. He looks through each one, finally selecting a lavender dress with long, flowy sleeves and a short skirt. Meg nods.

“Good choice, baby. That’ll look so cute on you.”

He lets Meg help him pull his clothes off and leave them on the floor, kicking them aside as she gently lowers the dress over his head. It’s too large for him as well, the neckline falling off his shoulders and the short skirt going down to his knees, and he finds himself wondering if Meg made all these for him or if she managed to find them in a thrift store.

“Look at you!” Meg says, standing on her toes to kiss his forehead. “See? You look adorable. Do you want me to do your make-up?”

“You first,” he tells her.

“Alright, then. Come sit with me.”

Meg leads him to her vanity and lets him kneel on the floor next to her since he’s too big to climb into her lap. Castiel leans his head against his thigh and watches as Meg carefully brushes out her hair and pins it back into a simple bun before she leans forward and begins applying her make-up, humming softly. Meg keeps it light, barely applying her eyeliner before she’s moving onto a few strokes of mascara and a simple, soft pink lipstick that Castiel’s sure she didn’t own before. When she’s finished, she smiles at her reflection and pats her vanity.

“Your turn, kiddo.” Castiel awkwardly hoists himself upward and sits, smiling when Meg chuckles and crosses his legs for him. “There we go. Now, hold still for me, okay? And try not to blink.”

He does, fighting against the urge to close his eyes when Meg leans in close to him and delicately applies eyeliner to his bottom lids. The smell of his mother’s perfume invades his nostrils, and Meg hums the same song his mother used to when he was a child.

 _“What are little boys made of? Snips and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of,”_ she sings softly, moving on to the mascara.

 _“What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of,”_ Castiel sings back, breathing in his mother’s perfume. Meg puts down her tube of mascara and taps his nose.

“Don’t you forget it. What color lipstick do you want?”

Castiel picks on at random, and Meg puts it on him carefully, rubbing her lips together to show him how to do it. He imitates her, laughing when they smack their lips at the same time, and leans forward to press a kiss to her nose.

“Do I look pretty?” he asks. It almost sounds wrong, coming from his mouth now, his voice so much deeper than it was when he was a child. But Meg smiles anyway, and rubs their noses together.

“Pretty as a picture. Why don’t we go make you breakfast?”

Castiel hugs her and lets Meg awkwardly slide him off her vanity, a small smile on her face, and notices the way her eyes wrinkle slightly when she does, and for a moment he feels _loved._

.

He likes to watch Meg put on her make-up, likes how peaceful everything is for those few minutes on Sunday mornings where neither of them need to talk.

But he likes it even more when, on some weekends, he comes over to see her in an old, faded green dress with flowers embroidered on the skirt, a smile on her face and smelling like childhood, with a closet full of clothes waiting just for him.


End file.
